


No One Can Be My Man (Be My Man)

by andromache (downtheroadandupthehill)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Hair, Come Marking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gratuitous use of italics, Gratuitous use of parentheses, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Scent Kink, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/andromache
Summary: Geralt likes Jaskier's body hair just a little bit more than he thought he would.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 340





	No One Can Be My Man (Be My Man)

He should not be surprised the first time he sees the bard half-naked, and yet here they are.

Geralt can admit to himself that he’d made certain assumptions about what Jaskier would look like underneath his layers of velvet doublets and silken undershirts – not because Geralt had spent time purposefully dwelling on the subject, of course, but only because one’s mind will naturally wander during long stretches on the road together, and will naturally wander toward thoughts of all kinds regarding one’s endlessly chattering newfound companion. 

Jaskier was, well, he was somewhat _effeminate looking_ , for a man, which was not all surprising given his profession. Bards, for whatever reason, just tended to be that way. Pretty enough in all ways to earn coin from men and women alike, flirting and batting his eyes and strumming his lute with long, elegant fingers. His features are delicate, could almost be described as _pretty_ , with his turned-up nose and bow-shaped lips. Wide blue eyes, framed by lashes dark and lush enough to look like he’s painted them, even though Geralt knows he doesn’t because he’d have seen him do it by now, if he really did.

(And isn’t that a thought - Jaskier in _cosmetics_ , like they wear in brothels. Lashes painted dark, wide blue eyes rimmed in kohl, swollen lips rouged red – )

Regarding his form – Jaskier is not _small_ , not exactly, he’s taller than average, though not as tall as Geralt. He’s lean and lithe. _Dainty_ is a stretch too far, though willowy seems close to accurate.

All of this is to say that, well, in Geralt’s mind’s entirely natural wanderings, when he’d considered what the bard’s bare chest might be like, had thought it would be rather _bare_. Skin smooth and unblemished, more like a woman’s than a man’s. He has not bedded his _fair_ share of men, perhaps, but Geralt has bedded a few of them, and those men inclined towards bedding other men seem to conform to a particular archetype of smooth and slim and pretty.

Geralt is not _blind_ , of course. While he hadn’t yet seen the bard in a state of complete undress, he’s seen him in nothing more than his undershirt with a smattering of dark hair above the unlaced neckline. Not that Geralt _notices_ it, per se. _Noticing_ it would imply that Geralt was _paying attention_ to it, _making note_ of it, which he most certainly was not. He had _seen_ it simply because he _has eyes_ and nothing more than that, and certainly _thought_ nothing more about it. 

So, Geralt knows Jaskier has _some_ chest hair. He’s clearly not a prepubescent boy or a woman. Still, he imagines it to be rather sparse and delicate. Delicate and _pretty_ just like the rest of the bard seems to be.

Not that _Geralt_ thinks he’s pretty. Just that he’s aware that others do. That’s all.

…..

On a sweltering summer day just outside of Redania, when Geralt stops under a tree to let Roach drink from a nearby stream and offer her a brief respite from the heat, he’s not surprised to smell the sugary sweet scent of Jaskier’s relief amongst the salt of his sweat, hear him exhale a muttered “thank sweet fucking Melitele” along with the sound of his feet stumbling to the edge of the water. 

He is surprised, however, when he turns from the saddlebags where he’s fetched the waterskins to see Jaskier hastily shucking first his doublet, then his chemise, and settling them gently in the grass. 

It’s not as odd as it should be, that he’s never seen Jaskier in this state of undress before. They share rooms and make camp together, and have for a while now, but Jaskier tends to sleep in his underclothes when he’s not bedding down with a near-stranger. And when the chance to bathe arises in an inn room rises, Jaskier nearly always makes Geralt take the bath first, insists upon it even ( _I cannot stand for another moment of you reeking like cockatrice guts, Geralt, and after I went through all this trouble to make sure this would be ready for you when we got back from the job_ ), and once the contents of the bath are more guts than water, Jaskier usually takes himself off to a bathhouse ( _It’s cheaper than calling for another bath, and as you’re always reminding me, the little coin we have is very dear, not to mention that there’s always the juiciest gossip in bathhouses anyway_ ).

It’s a _treat_ that Jaskier allows him, Geralt knows, the private baths in their inn rooms. An opportunity to avoid the curious glances and hostile stares so often aimed a witcher’s way. They’re an unnecessary expense that Geralt enjoys and that Jaskier can make do without, and so he does, while Geralt pretends that Jaskier isn’t doing him a favor in the process.

This is all to say that, in their months-long acquaintance with one another, Geralt has only ever seen Jaskier with some sort of shirt on (and has definitely _not_ thought about what’s underneath).

“Now, mind your feet and Roach’s hooves, would you?” Jaskier is saying while he squats on the ground, smoothing out his doublet neatly. “This one is new and clean and cost a pretty penny, thank you very much, and I don’t need either of you getting it wrinkled and dirty.” The bard rises to his feet then, squints at Geralt through the sunlight. “Oh yes, I see you glaring at me. Don’t worry - I won’t take over-long. I just need a quick dip to cool off a moment. Spare me my weak human frailties, would you?”

Geralt is made aware then that he’s been gazing at Jaskier, taking in the sight of his long pale arms, freckled shoulders, and his positively _furred_ chest, which, well, Geralt was not expecting _that,_ the blanket of short, dark hair that starts at Jaskier’s collarbone and travels downward, dense at his chest and around his nipples, lighter around his navel, trailing down into the waistband of his trousers, where – 

“Well we can’t all be built like brick fucking shithouses, Geralt, now can we?” Jaskier crosses his arms across that hairy chest, apparently taking Geralt’s completely _incidental_ visual perusal of his upper body to be some sort of negative judgement. “I’m not scrawny by any means, other than by comparison when I’m standing next to you, undoubtedly, and I’ll have you know - “

“Hmm.” Geralt looks pointedly back up at Jaskier’s reddening face. He might have been caught out at his _completely incidental_ staring, but at least Jaskier seems not to be mistaking it for _appreciation_. Still – he finds his dislikes the slightly sour smell of embarrassment emanating from Jaskier now. As such, Geralt plows forward. “I just thought - hmm.” He pauses, raises an arm to gesture at the bard’s, well, everything. 

Jaskier waits, eyebrows raised and pink lips pressed into an unimpressed line.

Geralt has started down this road, and supposes he should commit entirely. Not to mention that subterfuge is not his strong suit. “You’re... _hairier_ than I thought you’d be.”

Jaskier's stance softens. Halfway between laughing and scoffing, he puts his hands on his hips. “You wound me, my friend. I may be a bard, but I’m not a _woman_ .” He bends down to roll the legs of his breeches up around his calves. Then, abruptly, he stands up. His blue eyes narrow. “You _thought_ about how much hair I’d have on my chest?” Color rises in his cheeks and his lips curl into a smirk. “You absolute _dog._ I _knew_ –”

“Hmm. I’m not your friend.” It’s a growl this time as Geralt turns back to Roach’s saddlebags. The only thing he can think to say, even as he knows it’s foolish. Petty for the sake of it. The waterskins are held tightly in his fists. They still need to be filled, but he can wait until Jaskier’s done running his mouth, though even Geralt might be in his long-awaited _grave_ before that finally happens.

“I _knew_ you liked me. Like me. Having _thoughts_ about my naked chest. Not that I blame you for falling for my irresistible charms!” Jaskier cackles, and then there’s the sound of splashing as Jaskier steps into the stream, spills water scooped up and over his head and chest. “ _Oh_ , this is lovely. What a relief.” Jaskier’s moaning has to be at least a little performative, Geralt thinks, and pretends not to feel a tightening in his gut at the noises coming from the bard.

He makes a fuss of adjusting Roach’s bridle. Jaskier smells like heat and sunshine, and Geralt doesn’t need to look at him to be able to picture the sight of him, damp with sweat and streamwater, dripping down his chest and sliding through the faintest grooves where his abdominal muscles are just beginning to be defined. Geralt doesn’t need to look at him to picture it, but he steals glances over his shoulder anyway.

More than once, Jaskier catches him and grins.

….

Geralt tries to tell himself he’s not sure how they got here, his mouth mashed against Jaskier’s shoulder, biting at the freckles there, while Jaskier’s hands tangle in his hair, pushing him closer, closer, like he would drag Geralt inside him if he could ( _I’ve taken you inside of me before, and I’ll do it again_ , he envisions Jaskier joking with a wiggle of his eyebrows, like it’s nothing deeper than this glorious fucking between them).

He splays his hand against Jaskier’s chest, Jaskier’s nipple hard against his palm and heartbeat human-flutter-quick underneath. He feels the tufts of hair between his fingers, flexes his hand and _tugs_ , can’t stop the answering smile when Jaskier whimpers in response. Soft and wiry all at once, pleasurable and painful all at once like he knows like Jaskier likes. 

(How they got here – via shared beds and eventually shared baths and the wordless invitation in Jaskier’s sky blue eyes, quite possibly the only wordless thing he's ever done. He always smells like salt and sunshine along with something undeniably musky and _male_ . It was always stronger after the bard had _relieved_ himself, as it were, or disappeared with a smitten barmaid or lusty stablehand. Somehow he manages to smell like sex even after he’s freshly bathed – though Geralt is starting to wonder if it’s he himself causes it in Jaskier, or maybe Jaskier has just addled his senses enough for Geralt to associate Jaskier’s most natural scent with sex regardless of reality. 

(More than once Geralt has had to stop himself from leaning into Jaskier’s space and inhaling the smell of him and his endless-seeming _wanting_. Like the sea, endless and yearning, Geralt could not stop tasting the tang of it against the roof of his mouth.)

Resisting this was hard enough when Geralt thought of Jaskier as _soft_ , doe-eyed and smooth and pretty. Jaskier is not the first man Geralt has bedded, although women tend to be his preference. Sometimes a man in a brothel will catch his eye – a little like Jaskier, boyish and lean and with a coy sense of submission when he’ll gaze up at Geralt through his eyelashes. Geralt likes pretty women and prettier men. Resisting this was even harder after that hot day by the stream, what with Jaskier preening and running his fingers across his wet skin and through his body hair. Put more simply, Jaskier is much more _male_ than Geralt had expected, and unexpectedly, Geralt finds that irresistible. 

The proof of that maleness, Jaskier’s cock, hard and red and leaking, thrusting down into the crease where Geralt’s thigh meets his hip. Geralt is not without body hair himself, but there’s less of it than the bard has here (where Geralt the monster, the mutant, lies down and bares the soft meat of his underbelly to Jaskier only).

Jaskier, who is as loud in this as he is in everything. He slings a leg over Geralt’s hip to straddle him properly. “Want to ride you, witcher.” He sits upright to reach for the chamomile oil he had tossed to the ground before he clambered onto Geralt’s bedroll to begin with. A snap of the lid, and he’s pouring the slick over his fingers and Geralt all at once. “Gonna spear myself on that giant fucking cock of yours, be so tight around you that won’t be able to breathe” Jaskier says.

“Hmm.” Geralt moves to wrap his hand around both of them together.

“Oh no you don’t.” Jaskier leans over Geralt, pins his wrist to the ground in a hold that is strong for Jaskier, but that they both know Geralt could break easily if he wanted to (though for now he lets himself be pinned). “No way I’m gonna let you make me come this early. Not until I’ve ridden you for hours, at the very least.”

And that punches a laugh from Geralt’s throat, though it sounds more like a husky growl. “You can try, little lark.” Before Jaskier can form a retort, Geralt shoves three fingers in his open mouth. He knows what Jaskier likes – what makes Jaskier close his eyes and moan so that Geralt can feel the vibrations around his fingers, knows firsthand what Jaskier’s moans feel like around his cock. “Not even gotten my cock in you yet and here you are, moaning like a whore.” Geralt’s words just make the bard nod eagerly and moan louder.

Not as though fucking Jaskier is anything like fucking a whore. Not even close. Yes, Jaskier is _practiced_ , but there’s nothing at all feigned or obligatory about his enthusiasm for the deed, and for doing it with Geralt in particular. It’s more than the mindless rutting and physical release that Geralt is so used to paying for. Fucking Jaskier is _fun_ , of all the silly ways to think of fucking, Geralt is not used to fucking being _fun_. Jaskier likes to challenge, to be challenged, and he gives as good as he gets, and encourages Geralt to do the same. There’s never been any whiff of fear on him no matter how rough Geralt’s mutant strength might be sometimes - rather, he seems to relish in it.

(And when Geralt is _gentle_ , because Geralt can be gentle with him, even finds himself wanting to be on occasion, the warm smell of cinnamon and _sentiment_ simply oozes from the places where Jaskier always smells the strongest where it sticks in the roots of his body hair for days afterwards, and at those times Geralt is grateful that the bard has no witcher senses, can’t scent the tinge of Geralt’s own fear. The fear that was supposed to be killed by the Trials and the mutagens that taint his blood - Geralt can feel it.)

With his free hand now drenched in Jaskier’s spit, Geralt gives one last tug at the dark fur on Jaskier’s chest before he reaches around to where Jaskier’s already begun to open himself up. Nearly effortless, how easily he takes one of Geralt’s fingers beside his own. They've been at this rather often, he supposes. “Sweet Melitele, that’s good,” Jaskier exhales, back arching. “I’ll let you do that then, since you seem to be so inclined, darling, thank you.” He grinds down in Geralt’s lap and relinquishes his ensnared wrist, braces his hands on the broad bulk of Geralt’s chest. Lute-calloused fingertips dig in. He likes it when he makes the musician lose composure in those skilled hands. 

Geralt’s newly freed hand reaches back to join the first, spreading Jaskier’s cheeks, three fingers now, because he knows Jaskier can take them well. Jaskier leans forward and presses his red lips to Geralt’s in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Nothing if not consistent, Jaskier can’t help but talk through that as well, mouth moving artlessly against Geralt’s. Geralt’s cock, meanwhile, moves artlessly against the crease of Jaskier’s bottom, nudging against his fingers.

“Yes, yes, I want it. Don’t make me wait for it. I can take it now, take it always. Wouldn’t even need to stretch me for it first, I’ll take it so well for you, so good. Just let me be good for you.” Jaskier’s blue eyes are blown black when he rises up on his knees and wriggles until Geralt can feel the tip of his cock catch on his rim. Jaskier must feel it too, given the filthy sound he makes, and Geralt is in no mood to deprive him. He grips Jaskier’s slim hips, allows the bard to set the pace while Jaskier sinks upon him, groaning with gritted teeth the whole way down. “Fuck, _fuck_. Melitele’s _tits_. I swear you get bigger every day. Swear I can feel you in my fucking _throat_.” First Jaskier builds a rhythm with his words, and then his hips follow suit, rocking forwards and back, rising and falling. Geralt hangs on hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck,” Geralt says. He’s no match for Jaskier’s filthy mouth despite his efforts. No matter how many times they’ve done this, how easy the preparation, Jaskier squeezes around him, hot and tight. He can feel every twitch of Jaskier’s hips, imagines enduring this for _hours_ as Jaskier promised, and feels close to spending at the very thought. His fabled witcher stamina feels like a distant dream when Jaskier sits stretched upon him, but still he will endeavor. He thrusts upwards and smirks when he hears Jaskier’s high-pitched whine. “Look at you.” He thrusts again, harder than before in a sharp snap of his hips, and looks his fill: Jaskier astride him, cock hard and leaking against the fuzz on his belly. There’s a flush on Jaskier’s cheeks and neck that blossoms further downward. Geralt can catch glimpses of it amongst the thatches of that gorgeous hair. 

As he rides him, Jaskier stares into Geralt’s eyes, his mouth open and panting and Geralt swears he can feel it in his insides, finds himself pinned by that gaze blue-black gaze.

(This is a hold that all of Geralt’s witcher strength can’t break.)

“Fucking fuck, _fuck_.” Jaskier moves faster, clutches harder at the muscles in Geralt’s chest. "Come on, Geralt, fuck me. Fuck me harder. Want to see you come undone, want to know that I'm the one who did that. Make me feel you in me until I die."

Snarling, Geralt obliges. His hands slide from Jaskier's hips to the firm cheeks of his buttocks, gripping him tighter and improving his leverage. With little effort he's able to match Jaskier's tempo and exceed it, fucking up into the bard over and over again. Hard and fast and filthy, he has to restrain himself from pursuing his own release. He reaches up for Jaskier’s cock again, wants to see how much louder he can make him whine before he peaks inside of him.

“ _No_ .” Jaskier swats his hand away. “Want to come just like this. I can do it. Make me do it. Make me, _make me_.” He’s gasping by the end of it, rising and falling in time with Geralt's thrusting, letting Geralt use his body while they chase each other's pleasure. When he leans forward and presses his forehead to Geralt’s and finally _finally_ closes his eyes, Geralt feels like he can breathe again, just barely.

He tilts his head back until his lips meet Jaskier’s, and he feels the bardling whimper in his mouth. At this angle, Jaskier’s cock is trapped between them – Geralt can feel it pulsing against the plane of his stomach. 

“Jaskier,” he says, and digs his fingers into the pale flesh where his bottom meets the backs of his thighs. “ _Jaskier_.”

“Oh fuck, darling. Oh fuck, fuck, your cock, your, you – ” The bard is not exactly eloquent as he spends between them, not that Geralt isn’t pleased with it and with himself, like it’s not the best goddamn thing that Geralt has ever felt or smelled every time they do this, feels Jaskier take his pleasure on him. 

Geralt slows the movement of his hips, and his hands moves up Jaskier’s body until he’s cradling his jaw. Jaskier sags against him, melting against Geralt’s chest. Carefully, deliberately, Geralt takes the pink shell of Jaskier’s ear between his teeth. He manages to still his hips and mutters: “Thought you were going to ride me for _hours,_ little lark.”

Jaskier quivers; Geralt bites down just a touch harder. “Darling,” Jaskier says again. “ _Darling_.” And Geralt can feel Jaskier’s insides squeeze and flutter – from the overstimulation – around his cock, and suddenly Geralt is coming too, spilling inside of the bard with a strangled groan and half-aborted final thrust.

Perhaps more unexpectedly - Jaskier begins to _laugh_ against Geralt’s neck, the sound practically bubbling out of him, louder and wilder and songlike. Geralt can feel _that_ around his cock as well, and, witcher stamina be damned, there is such a thing as _too much_ of a good thing this soon after an orgasm - he needs a moment to catch his breath. 

He nuzzles into the hair that sprouts at the base of Jaskier’s throat as he pulls out of him. He wraps his arms around the bard as he does so, just to ensure his abrupt withdrawal is not misinterpreted. He knows from experience that Jaskier can be strange and sensitive after fucking, and while Geralt might be a monster, he's willing to be kind in this. The giggling still makes them both shake, a little, and Jaskier’s odd euphoria smells like meadowgrass. 

Some moments pass, and from on top of him, Jaskier's laughter fades. Nearly elbows Geralt in the jaw when he stretches his limbs. “This is lovely, dear, you know I love to bask in the afterglow and I appreciate your consideration, but if we don’t separate rather soon, we’ll _dry_ like this, and that won’t be pleasant for either of us.”

“Hmm. Should’ve thought of that before coming all over yourself then.” Geralt is not unconscious of the sticky slather of Jaskier’s spend between their stomachs, though he finds he doesn’t mind it.

“Rude!” Jaskier gasps in mock outrage. He knocks his forehead against Geralt’s, catlike. “That’s your fault, you brute. Not mine that you feel so good inside of me.” He wiggles his arse one last time, sits up and taps Geralt’s pectoral with his palm. It’s a fond gesture – could be mistaken as a _friendly_ one, even – if they weren't pressed together and covered in each other’s come. “Come on, I’m standing up now. We’re leagues and leagues from anywhere with a bath, and if we dry like this we’ll never be able to get it off.” Jaskier rises to his feet, practically _skips_ over to his pack on the other side of the fire to rummage through it. 

Geralt considers that he ought to fuck him rather hard next time, if he’s still so spry. “You mean you had the presence of mind to grab the oil but not a rag?”

“In the heat of the moment, one of them is rather more vital to the act itself, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt, meanwhile, reclines and admires the view. The trail of hair from Jaskier’s navel to his groin glistens wet and white in the firelight, and when the bard turns and bends over his belongings for a closer look, Geralt can’t stop the satisfied rumble that surges from deep within his breast at the sight of his come dribbling from within him. 

The sound is loud enough to Jaskier to hear, apparently, as he shoots a quizzical glance at Geralt over his bare shoulder. He looks down at himself, then back up at Geralt. “I know I called you the White Wolf in my songs, but you’re an absolute dog, you are. A rutting hound. Salacious cur. Libidinous, _lecherous_ – ” Speech turns into a litany underneath his breath, shaping a little wordless ditty that he tries to find the notes for.

If nothing else, he’s found the rag he was in search of, judging by the scrap of fabric in his hand. It's a bit old undershirt of Geralt's, torn beyond mending by a bruxa not so long ago. He makes his way to his own bedroll, just a few paces from Geralt’s, wiping at his skin as he goes, and that’s _fine_ , that’s absolutely _fine_. They don’t necessarily make a habit of sharing a bedroll when they travel. It’s not as if they save money the way they do when they share a bed in an inn, and on a night in early autumn this far south with a blazing fire going, they don’t need to huddle together for warmth, either.

“Geralt? Are you coming?”

“What?”

Jaskier tosses the rag his way – Geralt can tell by the way he throws it that it’s meant to hit him in the head so, of course, he snatches it from the air instead without even needing to spare a glance. It smells like chamomile and spend - his and Jaskier’s, old and new. Damp with water, too – Jaskier must have poured some over it to give it the pretense of cleanliness.

While Geralt wipes himself down, Jaskier hums and chatters on, something about a song about the White Wolf’s lust, and rhyming lust with bust ( _because_ _really, Geralt, you know how they are in backwater villages about the idea of men who lie together, and you’ve fucked more women than men anyway, so it’s not really much poetic license at all, is it_ ), all of which Geralt does his best to dutifully ignore.

Finally, Jaskier releases what sounds like a long-suffering sigh.

“Hmm?”

“Ah, your tone went up a bit at the end there, so I know you’re asking what the hell I mean. Well then. Are you going to lie there in your own filth all night, or are you going to come join me in my nice, _clean_ bedroll?”

Geralt rolls over onto his side, facing Jaskier. He takes a long pause while just stares at him in the brief and _blessed_ silence before he answers, “S’ _our_ own filth I’m lying in.”

“ _Oh_ ! An invitation to share my bedroll, so graciously extended from the bottom of my heart, and you respond like _that_? No thank you, no thank you, it looks like I get my bedroll all to myself tonight, thank you very much, not that I mind all of this wonderful leg room. You can stay over there and be disgusting, if you want to so badly.” Red-faced with indignation only half-feigned, Jaskier squirms into the blankets and tucks himself in, fussing at Geralt all the while. 

Geralt closes his eyes and thinks of meditation. He doesn’t really want or need to, not right now, but it brings a sense of stillness that might halt the buzzing in his head. 

Minutes pass, and Jaskier finally quiets. The fire crackles. Geralt listens to Jaskier’s heartbeat slow into the drift of sleep, still faster than Geralt’s mutant heart. Once the bard’s breathing evens out – save for the occasional stutters of half-formed words because his chatter never seem to cease even in slumber – Geralt opens his eyes again to watch Jaskier through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title is inspired by Big Thief's "From."  
> \- I haven't written uhhhhhhhh pretty much anything in YEARS. Especially smut. Like, just look at my profile.  
> \- I'm an editor, not a writer, but here we are. Sorry in advance.  
> \- This might wind up as a PWP (but with feelings) series. We'll see.  
> \- Comments, etc. are appreciated, especially when one is out of practice as I am!


End file.
